


Floriography: The Language of Flowers

by twisted_sheets



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Floriography, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 11:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2387426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisted_sheets/pseuds/twisted_sheets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of (and somewhat interconnected) USUK fics about flowers and their meanings. After all, flowers, as Park Benjamin wrote once, "are Love's truest language."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Floriography: The Language of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a kink meme fill in 2009, and I just got around posting it here for posterity. XD

In the wilder patch of America's garden, there is a particular shrub that he is very fond of, partly because when he first saw it, it was almost the same size as he was, and because his friends, especially the birds, love to feed on its red berries.

He also likes it because it helps him know when England comes and when he goes.

“Chaucer called it the whipple-tree, but I believe they call it ‘dogwood’ now,” replies England when America asked what its name was when they were having tea beside it in the garden one morning after he arrived after months and months of being away. The shrub is covered in pretty white blooms, as it always is when England arrives.

America doesn't know Chaucer and wants to ask who he is, but that would mean England talking about someone else other than himself or America or the things they like, and he didn't want that. He and England only have very little time to spend together, and America does not intend to waste it. So he asks, instead, more about the plant he’s so fond of, “Why is it called that? It doesn't look anything like a dog.”

England smiles a little as he brushes his fingers against one flower. “They used the wood for hilts of daggers,” explains England, “so they called it dagwood. As time went on, dagwood changed to dogwood, as with the nature of spoken words.”

_Wow_. England has answers for _everything_. “Do you have them at your place too?”

England nods, still smiling. “Other than hilts, they're made into arrows or shuttles for looms. Some even make preserves from the berries.”

It's America's turn to nod. “My friends think the berries are delicious.” Especially the little birds and the raccoons and squirrels and deer.

England laughs and says, “Is that so?” then sweeps him into the warmth of his arms, and smiles at him, and that makes America happy, but not as much as when England tucks his chin on his shoulder, kisses his hair, and whispers in the softest, gruffest of voices, “I've missed you.”

\------

When the dogwood’s leaves and twigs turn a bloody red, he knows it is time for England to go.

America also knows it is an ‘unbecoming action’ at his age, but he still clings on the hem of England's clothes as England starts to board the ship that would take him far, far away from America, although he knows from experience that it never works. His world is colder without England, and much, much more lonely.

England always gives him a small, sad smile, and strokes his hair with a soothing hand. "Hush. Don't worry, I'll come back. I always do, don't I?" England crouches so that they're eye to eye, green on blue. "I know you feel lonely, but you still have to keep doing your best and grow strong. Even when I'm not here with you. Will you promise me that, America?"

America fights back his tears. England wants him to be strong and brave, and crying now would be showing weakness. “Yes. I promise.”

\------

England does not come back for a long time. But America continues to wait. That is all he could do.

America is rarely in the garden nowadays, as he spends more of his time with his people or working and reading, learning new things. Does this because he wants to, and because he wants to be strong, so when England comes back (and he _will_ ), he would be _so_ proud of America.

One time he _does_ pass by the garden, he nearly slammed into the trunk of the tree.

_Tree_ , not shrub, because the dammed thing towered over him now, and he'd gotten pretty tall. Its stem had turned into a trunk almost as wide as him, its twigs into spreading branches that covered the sky and sun.

Absently, he remembers England telling him the wood was used for some sort of weapon, and he wonders if it can be used to make muskets. He should ask England, when he comes back.

He looks up at the blossoming tree, smiling wistfully to himself. He wishes England would come back soon so he could see his tree — and him.

England would be so surprised to see how tall they both had grown.

\------

In winter the tree is bare except for the snow on its branches, and America knows he should chop it down, use it for firewood, his soldiers are freezing, and he is so very cold and he is still at war with England, and he _hurts_ and he just wants this to end, to be _free_ , and he should chop the damn tree down, but he couldn't.

\------

“Well, at least you've been properly taking care of this place,” England remarks as he walks down the hall of Alfred’s house in Virginia. “I was afraid you had ruined it, or filled it with rubbish.”

"Hey, I kinda like those ‘rubbish’ you're talking about," America grouses at England, but his heart isn't really in it. He was too occupied being … happy to properly insult his former ‘guardian’.

It is the first time England steps foot in America's house after all these years. America has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing when he remembers the look England had a few hours ago, when, in a strange whim, he invited him over to his place (but not before America hid all the stuff England gave him that would make him think he was a sentimental idiot or whatever yesterday). It took a lot of persuasion to get him to accept it, with England saying (insisting) he’s only going so he could be sure America “did right” with the place, and “nothing more”.

Now, even with England ranting in front of him about the changes he’d made on the house, how the carpet is hideous and the furniture does not match _at all_ , America still can't believe England is in his house again; it only seems like yesterday that America thought this would never happen, that England would always hate him, and that England would always stay _away_.

(What he doesn't know is that England is also feels the same, but would rather die than admit it.)

When they reach the garden, the first thing England notices is the dogwood tree. It isn't hard to miss it, as it is one of the biggest things there, and in full bloom, its flowers carpeting the grass and shrubs beneath it in velvety white.

“Ah, so this one is still here, then? It's grown so tall!”

England is standing underneath it, his head tilted up, staring at the profusion of white blooms above with half-lidded eyes, as if remembering something. Then he opens them, and turns his bright emerald gaze to America. There is a slight smile on his face that made America suddenly feel warm all over, strange fluttering in his stomach. “We used to have tea near here, didn't we?”

_We used to_. England used to smile at him like that, before his independence. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “we did.”

When England has left, America makes a mental note to put a bench and a table under the shade of the dogwood tree, so when England visits him again — and he would, America is sure — they could have their snacks there, with tea for England and coffee for him.

As they did before, and, America promises to himself, as they will always _._

**Author's Note:**

>  **Floriography** is another term to refer to the language of flowers. While meanings have been attached to flowers long, long ago, it became a huge fad in the Victorian era, where it became a discreet and tasteful way to convey one's feelings to another.
> 
> Many of the meanings of flowers were taken from the book [_The Meaning of Flowers: Myth, Language & Love_](http://www.amazon.com/The-Meaning-Flowers-Gretchen-Scoble/dp/0811819310%0A) by Gretchen Scoble and Ann Field. The rest was from various sites. It should be noted that the meaning of flowers vary from place to place and from time to time, so there can be different meanings for the same flower. 
> 
> **Dogwood** means _endurance_. It also means _love undiminished by adversity_. The American dogwood, known also as the flowering dogwood, is also the state flower and tree of Virginia. I like to think America lived in Virginia when he was young.


End file.
